The Sign of Four
by Evelyn Rose Caiside
Summary: Sherlock returns. Molly Hooper is different. John Watson is married to Mary Morstan. Captain Morstan, the now Mary Waston's father, has disappeared and his family wants him back in time for Christmas. This "dull" case brings the Londoners to India, where danger and treasure awaits with mysterious Johnathan Small, who may be of more importance than originally thought.
1. Prologue

**A/N**: Hello, hello, _hello_, Sherlock fandom. I'm here to bring you Sherlock stories with modern characters based off the stories by Sir Doyle, completely free of adverse language, disgusting smut, and plot holes you could drive a bus through. Of course, I'm quite new at this, and I haven't actually watched Sherlock. I've only seen clips on Youtube. I'm American. Sue me. (Don't really, please. I'm trying to save up for college.) I have read a few of the Sherlock novels, however, and that's good enough for me until I find a way to get my hands on a season of Sherlock and TV Guardian thingy. Anyways, this is dull. Read on.

* * *

She blocks the yawn with the back of her hand, the warm breath making hairs stand on end. She reminds herself she needs to sleep. It won't be pleasant, trying to explain to Mike why she's landed on a table herself in the middle of a shift. The woman laughs at herself. Who would of thought? Molly Hooper, mousy pathologist who locked herself away with the dead, plagued by nightmares. Her life never used to be that exciting. Not until he fell, at least. With a sigh, Molly gathered the rest of the papers and disposed of them at her desk. No use filling them out tonight, they'd have to wait until tomorrow. Grabbing her bag, she shuffles her way to the staff lockers. It's nearly eleven now, so the halls are dark with only bits of moonlight coming through the windows of St. Bart's Hospital.

Molly's pulling her things from the lockers when she hears a noise, one that makes her jump and hide around the corner from the door while simultaneously pulling out her Glock 19 (a nice little thing that's given her peace of mind). One can never be too careful, whether it's the last of Moriarty's men wanting revenge on their master's death or Mycroft getting too big for his britches. She takes deep calming breaths. She's not scared, no, not any more (and probably never again, she likes to think). Molly Hooper has learned a lesson or two on her own. With encouragement from both Greg and John, she's taken and passed classes in both firearms and military fighting. She's still a little jumpy, they tell her. John Waston says he understands. He was in Afghanistan, after all. The DI simply shrugs and says she'll get used to it.

The noise continues, slow steps of a man. Molly plasters herself to the wall and raises her handgun, preparing it to fire, but keeping it on safely.

She almost curses at the clicking sound that echoes through the hall.

A deep, baritone rumbling sound comes from the man's chest as his steps stop. "I never thought Molly Hooper would be one to carry a firearm."

Molly freezes, recognizing his voice and wondering how he knows it's her (she notices her locker door is still hanging open). Then she laughs to herself out loud. Who is she kidding? She's known this man since she started out as a pathologist at Bart's. Of course, he'd know it was her. Stepping out from the hiding place around the corner, she lowers her hand gun, smiling at the silhouette of a curly mop and Belstaff coat.

"Sherlock Holmes", she pauses with a small smile, "you're back."


	2. Did I really count?

**A/N:** Well, my story has seemed to have caught some interest. Here's some fluff that's angst-filled. Still, it introduces things that have happened, and peoples feelings.

* * *

Sherlock found himself slight off guard as he took in the woman before him.

_Right hand holding a pistol, __pointing it to the floor. She used to detest them because of her father's murder, and now she keeps one on her person. She's scared. Braided hair instead of a ponytail, a few strands fallen out. __She woke up early and had time to do her hair, but had a busy day.__ The bags under her eyes and yawning also supports this theory. Grey, well-worn hoodie with University of Oxford across it. Nothing different, except the color isn't from her usual __girly __palette of choice. Same with the dark, navy tracks pants. He'd say that her pink ones (her favorites) are in the wash, but that's unlikely considering that these blue ones look well-worn. Dark colors on Molly Hooper. It's a new concept. Maybe's she's grown up a bit while he's away. Maybe's she sad. He's got several more ideas, but continues to the white trainers. Nothing new there. __Still the same ones she's always had.__ The glasses (black, rimless along the bottom, not at all what he'd __believe__ her choice in eye wear would be) __throw him for a loop. She had pink ones the last time he __stayed at her flat__._

"I'm glad to see you, Sherlock", she says as her allotted time for deductions runs out, "But there's security cameras in here. Someone will recognize you."  
Sherlock gives a wave of dismissal with his hand. "It's taken care of."  
Molly hums and picks her bag off the floor, putting her pistol away, and grabs a white jacket with St. Barts embroidered on the right shoulder from her locker. "Mycroft knows you're here then."

So she's met brother dearest.

(Sherlock wonders why he never mentioned it.)

"I'm sorry", he apologizes with air of disgust.  
"For what?"  
"That you met him."  
She laughs, and it brings a sort of healing to his mind and soul. (It shouldn't, it really shouldn't, he knows.)

(But it does.)

"He's not that bad. You just have to learn how to deal with him."  
"You didn't grow up with him."  
Molly smirks as she struggles to get her jacket on. "I suppose not. An older brother would've been nice though", she comments quietly to herself. "Are you back for good?"  
Sherlock nods and opens up the door that leads them into the hallway, almost letting it slam in her face as follows him. "Yes, but I'm not technically alive yet."  
The thought weighs on her mind. "Why come see me then? Shouldn't you be at John's or Mrs. Hudson's?"  
He mentally flinches at the mention of his _friends_. "No, I can't see them until everything's in order. And I can't stay with Mycroft."  
"You mean you won't", Molly corrects him dryly, "So I'm obviously the only other solution."  
"Obviously."

She sighs as they exit an employee entrance of the hospital.  
"What is it?", Sherlock asks, sounding annoyed. _People should just voice their opinions, not whine about them.  
_"I wish you would just come see me one day without needing something", she says quietly as he hails a cab. He says nothing.

They slip into the cab in silence, and Molly gives the cabbie the address to her flat. The young man looks up in the mirror with a frown, and glances back at the hospital.

"Aren't you that Hooper girl?", he asks.  
"Just drive, will you?", she snaps and the man says nothing else. Sherlock raises an eyebrow at the exchange, and Molly pulls out her phone when it buzzes in her pocket.

_Thank you -MH_

She's left wondering if England is about to fall. Both Holmes brothers have thanked her in the past ten minutes (albeit, one of them _was_ sarcastic). The ride continues in silence.

* * *

When they make it to the front of her complex, she throws money at the cabbie and gets out. Sherlock stomps ahead, as usual, while she's left trailing behind, searching for her keys in her purse. Molly's a set of stairs behind him, leaving his foot tapping up and down impatiently. She smirks to herself, taking her sweet time opening the lock. Sherlock huffs and tries to move her out of the way, but she budges him back.

It's the little victories. She's done being bullied by the world's only consulting detective.

When they come into the entryway/livingroom, she throws her bag and jacket on the sofa.

"Tea? Coffee? Food?", Molly asks as she starts up the electric water heater. "You can hang your coat in the closet if you want."  
"Tea." He opens the door of the closet, scanning the contents.

_A grey peacoat; for nice outings, not work. __A man's jacket. Odd. __Several pairs of boots. (He's secretly baffled by a woman's need for more multiple pairs of shoes.) Empty hangers on the rod. A box or two up in the closet, one wrapped in silly paper that's covered in snowflakes; Christmas presents. Other winter things like scarves, mittens, and hats are in a bin on the floor. _

Sherlock hangs up his coat and turns around to see Molly on her tiptoes, pulling out two mugs. Her own (chipped in several places, faded color) and a dark blue one (fairly new, meant for company).  
"I don't have a guest room", she says, facing the cubbard. "So you'll have to sleep in my room. I'll take the-"  
"The couch is sufficient."

And, honestly, it is, after so many months of moving trains and gritty hotel rooms.

"Ok. Do you need anything else? Food? Shower?" Molly stares at him expectantly as the water boils.  
"A shower would be nice."

Lovely, he wants to say, because the past two years have left a layer of dirt on him.

She nods and heads down the hallway, opening a door to a small, in-the-wall cupboard, and grabs two towels and a washcloth, stacking them on one arm.  
"I don't think I have any pajamas you could wear", she hands them off to the tall man, who looks out of place holding the yellow-and-white polka-dotted cloth.  
"It's fine. I'll just-"  
"Actually, I might. I'll be right back", she interrupts him and heads to her bedroom.

Once she's in the room, Molly turns on the light and heads to her closet, locating large bin in. She pulls it out and opens it. The contents make a lump form in her throat, but she pushes the sad thoughts to the back of her mind. Red, white, and brown plaid pajama pants are pulled out with a soft, faded brown shirt. They were her dads. Before her mind can dredge up any memories, she pushes the bin back where it came from and heads out of the room, flipping the light as she goes. Molly throws the pajamas on top of the pile Sherlock is holding.

"They might be a little big", she warns, "but it's all I have. There's some regular bar soap underneath the sink, and I have mint shampoo if you don't like smelling like a girl."  
He sighs at her attempt to be funny and heads to the main bathroom.  
"A thank you would be nice, too", she says loudly at the shut door.

Molly Hooper hangs up her jacket and enjoys a cup of tea before heading to her room for her own shower.

* * *

Sherlock helps himself to her washing machine when he comes out. He feels out of place in the pajamas, but at least he has something more comfortable than his suit. Molly's no where to be found in the flat, so he observes.

He makes inventory of the living room, noticing that the light sage color is gone, replaced by a dark navy blue. Everything, furniture and knickknacks included, have taken a more modern, grown-up feel to them instead of the cheerful childishness he once remembered. He finds himself fascinated with the photos on the mantel, and looks at them one by one, left to right.

Mrs. Hudson and John Watson sitting on the sofa in Mrs. Hudson's living room with Molly standing behind it. Tea is set out on the table. Smiles on the faces look real, but he can still make out the red-rimmed eyes of all of them. He wonders who took the picture.

There's Greg Lestrade and his wife, Molly, and John out at a pub. A blonde girl is sitting next to John with his arm curled over her shoulder. It most be Christmastime because fairy lights are strung up in the windows and they're all wearing ridiculous red, white, and green jumpers. (He still smiles, just a little bit.)

An older picture. One with a woman who looks like an older version of Molly, and has a large stomach. A man, only a bit taller, stands next to her, holding a small, strawberry blonde haired girl, who's not chubby like a toddler should be. He knows it's Molly's family. He also knows why there's no other pictures of them.

The next one makes his head spin and heart stop.

John is standing in front of the church, dressed to the nines in a black tux and a silk hat. He's kissing the blonde woman from the picture at the pub. She's dressed in white, and seems to have dropped a banquet of roses. Rings on their left hands confirm his thoughts.

Sherlock wonders if he'll still have a best friend.

"They've been married for almost six months now", a quiet, feminine voice says. Small footsteps pad their way into the kitchen, the owner heating up the cold water that was meant to be tea over an hour ago. "Mary's a good woman. I think you'll like her."

Sherlock snorts in disbelief, still staring at the picture. (A little bit of his heart is beginning to ache.)

"She's made John better, Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson likes her, too. Even Greg. She's clever, fun to be around. I think her and John balance each other out well. Mary gets him to be spontaneous, and John helps her settle down at times. They're very good for each other."  
"You don't need to convince me", he grumbles and moves onto the next picture, which shocks him equally.

Miss Molly Hooper and a tall, dark man with a long coat and scarf.

_Except it's not him._

The scarf's a light blue color, and the coat's not right. The chin is square, and his face looks a little smashed together.

That's not what bothers him though.

What's bothering him (_that really, really, really shouldn't _be_ bothering him_) is the fact that the man is kneeling in front of Molly with a large, stupid grin. Molly has a hand covering her mouth in shock. The thing that irks him though, and makes him look back at the left hand of the small woman making tea in the kitchen, is a small, blue box being held out to her.

Molly is engaged.

Sherlock wonders when he's losing his pathologist, too.

_(This hurts more than John, and he wonders _why_. Maybe's it's because he's always used this crush she's had on him to manipulate her. Using complements to gain things he wants. Making her stay late in the lab so he can run an experiment that John won't let him do in the flat. Without it, he can't go on his crime solving sprees. Then where would he be?_

_Or, maybe, it's something else. Something he doesn't want to admit. Something that's bothered him for years, but he's always pushed it back into the dungeons of his mind palace, willing it to never pop back up to the rooftops, but it does. Sentiment is a chemical defect of the losing side, he says to himself. It always has, and always will be. He doesn't dare think he _feels_ for Molly Hooper. _

_Here's a secret: Sherlock Holmes tries not to feel.)_

"When's the wedding?", he demands, leaving the pictures on the mantel and stomping into the kitchen.

Molly looks up at him. It hurts a little, seeing those pajamas again. The anniversary of her father's murder is next week. She's not looking forward to it. Molly inwardly smirks at how large the clothing is on him. Good thing he's tall.  
She remembers his question and looks down at the sparkling gem on her left hand. Sighing, she answers. "Next year. We're thinking August."  
Sherlock sits down at the table, and she's surprised to find that, somehow, apparently, she now has his full attention.

Maybe he does care after all, a little part of her wonders _(hopes?)_.

No, Sherlock Holmes doesn't feel.

The man hums noncommittally, sipping the tea she hands over. "He reminds you of me", he states bluntly, and a little voice in back of his head, sounding suspiciously like John, says _a bit not good_.  
It's stuck a chord though, and Molly mentally recoils. She's convinced herself that it's _not_ the case. Tom is a completely different man than Sherlock. "Only if you count his height and coat", she says bitterly, "Tom is different than you, Sherlock. Very different."  
He raises an eyebrow. "How so?"

This isn't how she imagined their reunion (if it ever even happened) would be. Molly thought it would be happy, even after she was with Tom. She expected some resistance from Sherlock, but never wanted to him to bring up the fact that she resembled Tom to him. _(She doesn't, she promises, she really doesn't.) _

But he asked how so, and now she can't seem to stop herself. Or her mouth.

"Well, first off, he says _please_ and _thank you_. He doesn't come into the morgue, demanding body parts when I'm backed up in paperwork. There's no demanding coffee when I'm just about to go home after a twelve-hour shift. He _cares_, Sherlock. More than anyone else I've known except for my dad."

Molly's voice cracks, but she continues.

"He isn't cruel. He doesn't deduce me down until I feel _naked_ in front of everyone in the room, making me want to fall into a hole and die. He doesn't _manipulate _me to get things he wants."

He watches her as she angrily spits out the words, with one or two tears falling into her tea. But then she's strangely quiet, and swallows, and almost _whispers_.

"And most of all, he doesn't lie about me _counting_."

Sherlock stands up from the table, breathing hard and demanding that she looks him in the eye. Molly obliges. His voice is a harsh whisper, a hiss even, as he tries not to yell. _(Everything she's said, disguised as what her fiance is _not_, is aimed at him, and he knows it, and it _hurts_ to know that it's all true.)_

"I told you, Molly Hooper. I _told_ you that you _counted_. Why don't you believe it?"  
Her strange calm almost scares him. Almost.  
"You don't leave people who _count_, Sherlock."  
"I had work to do! I was out there", he points a long finger to the sliding door, "destroying Moriarty's web of fools. No, the people who are leaving are the people here- John and now you."

She knows it hurts him to see his only friend married, but that doesn't stop her own pain, so she shouts. "No, you left. I took care of you for that two weeks after you fell", she stands up from her chair, his tall frame towering over her. _(She's not scared. Not anymore.) _"-and then you left one night. No goodbyes, no telling me when you might be back-"

"I didn't know when I'd be back, and goodbyes are final."  
"You could have said _something_, anything. Even if it was just saying to wait for you to get back."  
Molly finally lets her tough exterior she's been trying to hold, crumble.  
"I missed you so _much_, Sherlock. There were times I thought I'd ever see you again, wondering if you were dead, or _worse_. It just hurt, lying to all your friends. I should have just known that I didn't count in the first place."  
"Why do keep saying that? You _do_ count."  
"Then tell me why, Sherlock, tell me why there wasn't a sniper pointed at me? Why didn't you say goodbye once you were well enough to leave? Why didn't you send a note, call, a message through Mycroft, _anything_?"

Sherlock now realised that he had lost his pathologist way before this.

"Molly, it's obvious that you're still _in love_ with me. Why the fiance?", he asked.

She let out a harsh breath through her clenched teeth. "I used to be _in love_ with you, but I'm not in love with you anymore. You know what I've realised? I've realised that you will never have and never will feel the same for me. You are truly married to your work, and the only reason I could ever _count_, is that I help you continue on through your work. Once I can't help you anymore, you'll give up on me. All I am is a tool, an asset." Molly laughed humorlessly. "But you know what? I _love_ you, Sherlock. I always will. Nothing can change how I feel. Sometimes loving someone means letting them go, and that is what I'm doing with you." She quieted down and spoke quietly, her chin quivering. "Sherlock, as long as you have John, as long as you have Mrs. Hudson, Greg, and Mycroft, as long you have cases to work on, as long as you're _happy_, I'll be fine. I don't need to count as long you're ok."

Molly Hooper took a shuddering breath. Her little tirade was exhausting. "Goodnight, Sherlock."

He's left alone in the quiet living room, and notices a pillow and blanket on the sofa, presumably left for him to use.

_(__Here's another secret: Sherlock Holmes can feel, he just doesn't want to.)_

* * *

**A/N:** Next Chapter: We meet Mr. and Mrs. Watson, as well as Mrs. Hudson, and a real storyline starts. (with a adult-napping!) It's probably only a five, but John insists that he takes it.


End file.
